


A Different Kind of Haunting

by spuffyduds



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no dearth of opportunities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Haunting

**Author's Note:**

> Done for Kink Bingo 2011, for the "celibacy" square.

It's not as if he's lacked for _offers_.

Admittedly, the offers he received in the mental institution could be a bit on the alarming side--one fellow assured Geoffrey that if they had sex they would both be magically transported to a zoo on the planet Tralfamadore. And given the drug mix he was on--well, spirit willing, but flesh more quiescent than tumescent.

Afterwards, however. Afterwards, he had plenty of offers, from plenty of people who met his rather low bar of being, or at least seeming, less damaged than Geoffrey himself. And the equipment--the equipment was fully functional. Enthusiastic, even, leaping to attention when an actress in his ragtag troupe asked meaningfully for _personal_ coaching, or when a bartender gave him a free drink and casually mentioned what time his shift was ending.

And he tried, he actually did, a few times. But he found once he was in a clinch or a kiss that it was just all wrong--the smell of the person, the feel of lips and skin, all wrong. He wouldn't lose his hard-on, or his _desire_ \--that might have made extricating himself from the situation somewhat less difficult, but no. But he would lose all mental enjoyment, all curiosity about the person in his arms, what her nipples might look like, whether his mustache would tickle Geoffrey's cock. He would no longer have any sense of how this should _go_ , any picture in his head of the prospective delights of forging ahead. There he was, being enthusiastically kissed, cock ready and willing and aching, and the prospect of actually having sex seemed improbable and exhausting.

So he stopped even trying. He carefully, gently turned people down at the first hint of attraction, and then turned them down less carefully and gently if they kept trying, and some of them certainly did. He said, "No thank you, I'm married to my work," which was possibly true, or, "No thank you, I'm gay," or "No thank you, I'm straight," neither of which was _entirely_ true, or "No thank you, I'm impotent," which was an outright falsehood. Because after these turndowns, when he went home to whichever terrible rented room he was in this month, he could hardly wait to collapse on his (inevitably narrow and lumpy and odd-smelling) bed, get his zipper down, get his cock out and stroke. And, frustratingly, when he was alone like this his imagination worked just fine, he could picture exactly how luscious it would have been to carry on with every single damned person he'd said no to, a line of pretty and willing people stretching out through years now.

He could picture them, one by one or some nights several at a time, their lovely faces, their willing hands and tongues all over him. Sucking him off or filling his mouth, nails on his back and teeth in his shoulder, he could so perfectly picture them all, but he kept on saying no, years and years of no, because no matter who he imagined while his hand stroked his cock, every single time he came whispering, "Ellen."

\--end--


End file.
